Fresh from your war
by Catori Simone Winston
Summary: Sherlock returns, texts John to open the door and asks John why he didn't move on. John Watson couldn't move on. It was impossible. "I'm fresh from your war." John murmured. JohnLock! Return Fic.


**A/N: So, this Fic was inspired from a picture. :D It is a beautifully edited picture. If anyone knows the one I am talking about and knows who edited it could you PM me and tell me? PLEASE! I saw the pic on a Sherlock page on FB (I don't remember which one. Sorry!) and it gave me this idea. The picture has John and Sherlock on it and it says "Fresh from your war". That's where I got the line SO credit goes to the picture for that line.**

**This is a JOHNLOCK Return Fic. Enjoy y'all!**

**Catori**

**Disclaimer: I don't own/I didn't edit the picture that inspired this fic, nor the line "Fresh from your war." That line was on the picture.**

**I also don't own Sherlock. Or John. Or any characters mentioned. I just borrowed them for about an hour-ish to write this fic. :D**

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John Watson sat in the chair that used to be his best friend's... Sherlock's. He sat there, staring forward, eyes blank. His graying blonde hair was mussed messily from one too many sleepless nights, because anytime he closed his eyes the scene from that fateful day would be on replay. Sherlock falling. Sherlock laying still, so still; blood matting his dark curls. Sherlock's once expressive and bright celadon-blue eyes, now cold, unseeing and dull. It didn't fit Sherlock. The stillness of his body, the unseeing eyes, the even paler skin… John shook his head at that thought and began to get himself out of the chair. He had to get up. Go through the motions. Make himself tea, get dressed and get ready for a day at surgery. He had tried just sitting there before but it hadn't worked for too long. He thought he might be able to just fade into the background, fade away from life. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft had made sure that him fading into the background did not happen. John sighed. As he waited for the water to boil in the kettle he wondered if maybe death would be kinder. Could it possibly be easier? As the kettle began screeching, signaling that the water was hot John began pouring out the water; effectively stopping that train of thought. _No,_ he thought, _I won't do that to Mrs. Hudson… or anyone else for that matter. Even though she looks all right, you can see the sadness in her eyes at the loss of Sherlock. I won't leave her. I can't leave her._

John brought the cup of tea to his lips and sipped at the liquid. Not really having the stomach to even think about anything to eat. He brought the tea with him as he was heading up to his bed room. He then heard his phone chirp from where he left it near the chair. He stopped and sighed. Maybe Lestrade wanted him to look at a case. It was the only thing John did now that made him feel useful and close to Sherlock. John still had his tea cup in his hand as he picked up his phone and unlocked the screen. He tapped the message and saw it was from an unknown number.

**Open the door.**

**-SH**

John froze. The tea cup that was in his hand fell to the ground and shattered. The shards of the blue tea cup flying and the brown liquid staining the floor. John stared at the screen in complete shock. He didn't move to try and get the door, he didn't move to respond to the text; he just stared at the screen. Then another text message blinked across the screen, making the dimming screen go brighter again and showing the new text message.

**Please John. Open the door.**

**-SH**

His eyes went wide as he darted towards the door and hopped over the mess of the tea cup and slammed against the door in his haste. He flung open the door and in the dim light of the morning there stood a man that held his mobile in his hand. His long pale fingers wrapped around the device. His lanky figure stood proud and drawn up straight, like it always had but was covered with a hooded sweatshirt, jeans that didn't fit, worn out sneakers and a tan over coat that reached his ankles. His hair that was dark curls were cut back but were a blonde color now. His eyes were still that celadon-blue and still held the bright enthusiasm and spark they did one and half years ago. They both stared at each other, drinking in the sight of the other until one of them moved. John suddenly rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. His face in the curve of his neck breathing in his scent as tears leaked out of his eyes and began to soak the tan over coat. Sherlock, some how, was thinner than he had been before. John made a mental note to make Sherlock eat, but then really he should talk because he hadn't eaten properly in who knows when. Sherlock quickly wrapped his arms around John and held him. Knowing he was finally home. Sherlock murmured nothings into John's ear, comforting him as John just clutched to Sherlock. As they parted John looked up at Sherlock, watching his eyes and then his lips touched Sherlock's. Sherlock couldn't say he was surprised, but he was shocked for a moment. Then the kiss was over as soon as it started, not nearly enough time for Sherlock but John was pulling them inside now. Sherlock couldn't understand why his mind felt so foggy now and sluggish. They were then in the flat and Sherlock looked around, nothing seemed to be changed. His things were still there, but the flat was dusted and clean. It looked almost the same as it did before he left. John just stood behind him, silent. Sherlock turned to look at him, now across the room. Sherlock finally took in John's appearance. Bags under eyes, he hadn't been sleeping well. His frame was thinner, he hadn't been eating. He hadn't been taking care of himself. Sherlock noticed the new case files that were on the table, John had been doing some case work for Lestrade. Sherlock smiled and felt… proud that John was taking cases and it looked like was solving them as well. John began walking forward.

"John," Sherlock began, his baritone voice wavering. John still walked up to him slowly. "John, I-" Sherlock stopped talking when John was suddenly in front of him, just watching him as if he would disappear.

"You're real?" John asked, feeling the need to make sure this wasn't another one of those dreams.

"Of course I am John." Sherlock said.

"Where did you go?"

"Anywhere Moriarty had men."

"How?" Sherlock knew that John referred to his fall.

"Molly and Mycroft's help." John nodded at Sherlock's reply.

"Why haven't you taken care of yourself John? I would have thought by now you would have moved on." Sherlock asked, not understanding. John looked at him for a moment and straightened the lapels of the jacket on Sherlock.

"I'm fresh from your war." John murmured. Sherlock looked down at him with understanding and sadness in his eyes. John looked up at him and shook his head. With those words John had just explained to Sherlock that he could have never left him or gotten over him. It wasn't possible. With that Sherlock then bent down and pressed his lips to John and in the early hours of a Friday morning Sherlock Holmes returned to 221B Baker Street. He returned to John, to acceptance, understanding and the feeling of home and safety. Neither knew what would happen in the future, but they knew that there was a war to be waged; because when you stand with Sherlock Holmes, you don't just see the world. You see a war. And that war… It would be waged, with them both; side by side.


End file.
